


The Night Before

by Zoe1078



Series: Pre Wedding Fic [4]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe1078/pseuds/Zoe1078
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the wedding, from Jamie's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His bride-to-be was drunk. Very drunk. Jamie eyed her where she sat in a corner of the taproom, alone but for a bottle of whiskey, its contents rapidly diminishing. He was equal parts impressed and worried, for he had never seen a lass drink so much liquor. She remained upright for the moment, but had started to tilt on her stool a little, yet she did not fall. He sat on the edge of his own seat, ready to launch himself across the room to right her if she listed too far to the side, but so far was too nervous to make his way closer. And she was managing, barely.

He didn’t know what to do, so he simply watched and waited. The bigger part of him wanted to speak with her, sit with her, touch her, but he knew she wouldn’t welcome it, welcome him. Not now. She was too overwhelmed by the shock of their upcoming nuptials to do anything but swallow the intoxicating liquid in front of her. He, too, was surprised and anxious, and had imbibed a few drams of his own, but it helped greatly that he wanted it badly. He’d known she was meant for him as long as he’d known her, but the how had eluded him until Dougal approached him with a proposal to keep Claire out of the clutches of Captain Randall. He’d agreed without protest, to the surprise of no one. 

No one except Claire, that is. They had spoken briefly when Dougal came to fetch him. She seemed utterly stunned at the prospect of marrying him, but had asked him only three questions: first, if he knew they were to be wed, second, if he was already promised to another, and third, if he cared that she wasn’t a virgin. Of all the things to ask! Of course he knew she wasn’t a virgin. She was a widow, after all, and unless her husband dropped dead at the altar, she had lain with the lucky bastard. He had spent no insignificant amount of time being jealous of the dead man, but now, on the eve of his own wedding, he felt only pity. Claire still hadn't told him what had happened, but Jamie was sure her husband never would have left her willingly. Once she was his, completely and fully, Jamie would defy death itself to keep her. 

As for her question about whether another awaited him, the idea was laughable. Even if there was someone else, she couldn't have stood a chance against Claire. It was natural enough that she might wonder; she had seen his embrace with young Laoghaire with her own eyes. Little did she know what was really happening. When the girl had flung herself at him, he had started to resist. She was nothing to him, and he had only taken her beating out of pity and to impress Mistress Beauchamp. He couldn't tell if she was impressed, but he had at least gained her attention, if only to tend to his wounds. But she had announced her upcoming departure right after, and despite the feeling in his gut that she was meant for him, she had given no indication that the feeling was reciprocated. Forlorn and thinking he might never see her again, when Laoghaire tried to kiss him, he let her. If Mistress Beauchamp would disappear forever, he ought to find out if someone else could rouse in him anything close to the level of passion he felt for Claire. Though the lass was bonnie, soft, and willing, and he supposed it was pleasant enough, it came as no real surprise when nothing she did, even in this supposedly amorous embrace, compared to a single touch of Mistress Beauchamp’s. He'd happily suffer any pain for the healer’s attentions to a wound, yet he might never look upon Laoghaire again and never notice the difference. And so he had his answer. But when Claire spotted them only seconds after they'd started, a flash of what he wishfully hoped was jealousy crossed her face, ever so briefly, and he relished the fleeting expression with avarice. He leaned farther into the kiss to see if he could elicit a further reaction from the woman he really wanted: the lovely Mistress Beauchamp. But when he looked up, she was gone. It had backfired--both lasses thought he returned Laoghaire’s affections. 

Well. They should both understand where he stood when he wed Claire on the morrow. 

He couldn't quite believe it was actually going to happen, so suddenly and without warning. Looking at his bride, neither did she, though she was now too inebriated to make an effective escape, if ever she had meant to try. 

What was she thinking about as she stared into the amber liquid before her? She certainly didn't look happy, much to his disappointment. Did she contemplate her late husband? Jamie himself? Her fate? Was she worried about how he would care for her? How he would provide for her? Where they would live? Whether he would be kind to her? If so, why hadn't she asked anything of the sort? She'd only asked about other lasses, and if it bothered him that she wasn't a virgin. Dear Lord. He was consumed by the thought of bedding her to begin with, and now it was even worse. It was a miracle he thought of anything else, really, especially after he'd heard her captivating moans and gotten voyeuristic glimpses of her stunning body. 

Oh, how he wanted her! And how close he was to having her! But it wasn't only her body he wanted, but her smiles, her laughter, her joys, her sorrows, her dreams, and her heart. The first he would have, if all went according to plan, but the rest? Optimistically, he recalled that he'd drawn smiles from her before, and laughter as well. He treasured every turn of her lip. Once, she'd even graced him with a glimpse of her sorrows, and in that moment, something had passed between them, and he had become hers. Yet she wasn't his. Not yet. 

Tomorrow. He had done nothing to court her, unless lusting from a distance could be counted.  Somehow, unbelievably and miraculously, this strategy had actually worked. Come tomorrow, she would be his. He could hardly believe it.

Suddenly a sense of panic swept over him. What on earth was he going to do with her once he had her? How would he provide for her, protect her, please her? He worried, but not nearly enough to stop him from marrying her. For he wanted her more than anything in his life, and despite the circumstances, including her own reticence, he was thrilled to his core. He only hope that someday she would grow to feel for him as he felt for her. 

Christ, even now, half gone with drink and exhausted after her ordeal with Captain Randall, still she was the most beautiful creature. Her cheeks were flushed and pink, her eyes shone, and the firelight brought out every imaginable shade of brown and auburn in her wild curls, from rich chestnut to shining mahogany. Her skin fairly glowed, like opals or pearls, and he longed to touch her, put his hands on her, to see just how soft it was. His body still ached with the memory of her pressed against him for that long ride on the first night they'd met. Ever since, he had been consumed with fantasies of clutching her close in much the same fashion, but with no barriers of clothing between them.  _ Dhia _ , how he wanted her!

"Jamie! Jamie!" A large hand waived in front of his face, and he realized that Rupert was trying to gain his attention.

How long had he been staring unblinkingly at Mistress Beauchamp? No, soon to be Mrs. Fraser... "What?"

The men burst into laughter. Apparently he had been staring for quite some time. "Lad, you're so far gone!" Rupert snorted. "Your eyes are going to fall out of your heid if you keep staring at her bug-eyed that way!"

Angus snickered, "’Tis a miracle ye havna gone blind abusing yourself over her.”

Everyone at the table roared as Jamie flushed bright red. What would she think of him if she overheard? What would she do? If she realized what a pervert he was, she may well change her mind and flee. “Shut your mouth!”

But they weren’t done ribbing him, not by a long shot. Rupert slapped his palm on the table in glee. “Look at him! He hasn’t the slightest idea what to do wi’ her, and Mistress Beauchamp a widow. She’s experienced, aye? No cowering innocent.”

“Quiet!” he growled, to no avail.

Ned shook his head. “A lad like him, wi’ all the lassies falling over each other to get to him? I’m sure he’ll be just fine with his new wife.”

Angus waved his hands drunkenly in denial, nearly smacking Rupert in the face. “No, our wee Jamie’s still a maid. Isna that true? I heard ye say so to Mistress Beauchamp.”

Jamie looked helplessly at his godfather for help, but Murtagh simply folded his arms over his chest and started back at him in wry amusement. “I… I don’t…”

“Oh God, ‘tis true!” Rupert howled. “How, man? And for God’s sake, why? Do yer parts no’ work?”

Jamie looked in alarm at Claire. “Do we have to talk about this now? Here? At all? My bride’s right there!”

Dougal glanced over at her. She was hunched lower over her bottle of whisky and made no sign that she heard them. “She’s there in body, but not in mind, I dinna think.”

Rupert looked over and agreed, “Damn, that woman can hold her liquor. She’ll eat him alive!”

“Only if he’s lucky!” Angus hooted. Then he poked Jamie in the arm. “Oi, have ye ever had a lassie do that to ye, at least?”

Jamie’s brow furrowed in confusion. What on earth was Angus talking about? “What? Do what?”

“Use her mouth on ye, of course!”

He stared blankly. “What?”

Angus’s jaw dropped open. “You don’t even ken what I’m talking about, do ye? Christ, were ye raised by wolves?”

Then Rupert obligingly explained what Angus referred to, and Jamie was certain it was the most ridiculous lie. The men didn’t stop there, either, going into increasingly lurid detail about implausible things. Surely they were trying to get him to humiliate himself with his new bride. Even Ned and Murtagh joined in, while Dougal scowled into his own ale. He tried again and again to get them to stop. He had seen plenty of farm animals in his day, and once, a man assaulting a woman. If the pigs could figure out what to do, so could he. He put up his hands. “Stop. Just stop. I dinna believe half of what you say, and wi’ the other half, you’re contradicting each other. I’ll be fine.”

“No you won’t.” Angus slurred. “That’s a real woman, who kens what a man’s supposed to do. And you dinna have the slightest idea.”

He protested weakly, “That's no’ true!”

This prompted a new round of laughter. “Lad, ye canna fool her like ye’d fool one of them simpering lassies who mooned over ye at Leoch!” Rupert snorted.

“I dinna want to fool her!” he blustered.

Just as they launched into a litany of his inadequacies, he noticed Claire stumble off her stool, and he leapt out of his own seat. She wobbled and tripped, banging into a sullen looking man seated at the table behind her and knocking his ale from his hand. The fellow turned on her. “What do ye think you’re doing?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Claire began.

But at the sound of her accent, the man rose to his feet. “Sassenach bitch! Look what ye did!” He pointed to his dripping kilt. 

“I a--apologize,” she tried, but he wasn't having it. 

He grabbed for her wrist, causing her to lose her already-tenuous balance. “Not good enough!” 

Jamie had practically flown across the room, and he grabbed the man’s arm with one hand and Claire’s waist with the other. “Dinna fash, sir. She's just had a wee bit much to drink in celebration of our upcoming wedding tomorrow. She's said her apology, and you'll now let her go.” His words were polite, but his tone was not, nor was the grip he had on the man’s arm as he twisted it back.

The fellow reluctantly let them pass, cradling his arm, and Jamie led her up to her room, telling the men that he'd see her safe.

"I… I think I can manage from here," she said as they reached the top of the stairs. But when she tried to walk on her own, she immediately bumped into the wall.

Without hesitation, he wrapped his arm around her to steady her. "I'm sure ye can," he lied diplomatically, "but I’d feel safer if I see you all the way to your chamber."

She leaned into him without protest, and as he opened the door to her room, she murmured, "Thank you, Jamie."

"No need to thank me. I'm happy to be of any assistance.”

But she didn't seem to have heard him. She continued, "...for helping me up here, and with that fellow downstairs, and with C--Captain…"

She seemed to be having trouble getting out the name, so he finished, "Randall." And he couldn't help but notice the wince she made at the sound of the name. 

"Yes. Quite. Anyhow, thank you."

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have crossed the threshold, but he could feel how off-balance she was. She nearly fell despite his studying hand. He wasn't certain she’d make it to the bed if he let go, so he gently guided her toward it and lowered her down. When she was settled against the pillow, he covered her hand with his. Quietly, he told her, "I willna let anything happen to you, Claire. I willna let anyone hurt you." It was more than he might have said were she sober enough to remember, but he knew she was too far gone. It was doubtful she would recall any of tonight’s events. For all he knew, she would wake up in the morning with no recollection that they were to be wed. He even thought to press a kiss to her lips before he left. After all, she wouldn't remember, and even if she did, in less than a day, she would be his wife. But he was too nervous, so he squeezed her fingers slightly and started toward the door.

She startled him before he reached the exit. "I'm glad it's you, you know." She had spoken so softly that he thought he might have imagined it, but then she followed up by saying, "I was afraid it was going to be Dougal."

Now he laughed and turned back to her. "I dinna think his wife would appreciate that very much, though I don't doubt Dougal would have offered himself were he a free man."

She rocked her head back and forth against the pillow in a sloppy shake of her head. "I don't trust him."

"Neither do I," Jamie chuckled. 

"You shouldn't!" Then something seemed to come over her, and she sat up abruptly and exclaimed, "You shouldn't trust any of them! They're all liars!"

Her entire countenance had changed, drawing him back inside. "Who? Who are liars?"

"All of them! I heard some of what they told you. Don't believe any of it! Or at least..." She looked confused, furrowing her brow and biting her lip as she swayed a bit on the bed. "At least not the things that weren't true."

He couldn't help but laugh at this nonsensical instruction. "And how am I to tell what is and is not true?"

"I'll tell you!" she declared. "After all, if I'm to be your wife, it's my opinion that matters!"

“I dinna suppose I can argue with that logic! But what are we talking about?”

She leaned toward him conspiratorially, nearly toppling onto the floor. He had to catch and right her as she said loudly in his ear, “Murtagh was wrong. Totally wrong.” She patted the bed beside her. “Here, sit by me so we can chat.” He obeyed as she continued, “Women do care for it. In fact, we love it when it's done the right way.” Jamie froze. Did she mean what he thought she meant? “Or I do, anyway.” She wiggled her fingers dismissively. “I suppose I shouldn't talk for everyone. But to me, it just feels so… so...”

Her attention drifted off, and she didn't finish her sentence. But Jamie had to know what she meant to say. Did she speak of bedding? Truly? How it felt for a woman? More importantly, how it felt to her? Against his wishes, his traitorous cock hardened with wondering. Could he ask her what she meant? Was it too forward? Did he dare? She probably wouldn't even remember this conversation tomorrow, so he screwed up his courage and prompted, “Feels so what? What were ye going to say?”

“Hmm?” She looked at him with unfocused eyes. “Wha’s that?”

He swallowed hard. “You said, ‘it feels so…’”

Now her eyes slipped shut, and a little secret smile turned up the corners of her lips. “Mmmm. Oh, that. It feels so good. When it’s done right…”

His tongue felt dry, but he swallowed hard anyway. “Done right?” He wanted badly to know how to do it right, especially for her.

Her eyes were still shut, and her skin fairly glowed. She nodded slowly, and, her tongue loosened by whiskey, began, “I suppose it must feel for a woman much like it does a man. You know… that heat… that sensation, deep inside… so, well... You know what I mean, don’t you?” Then her eyes popped open in surprise. “Oh, no, you don’t know, do you? You said you’re a virgin!”

Heat flushed his cheeks just as it pulsed beneath his kilt. He might have stormed off in embarrassment if it weren’t for the way she touched his shoulder, stroking gently with her thumb, and smiled so sweetly at him. “I did,” he admitted. 

“But you’re so, well, look at you!” she blurted out, eyeing him up and down rather blatantly. “And gallant!” She squeezed his arm. Now she hiccoughed, then started to giggle. “And so strong. Like a h-hero right out of a fairy t-tale. How does a strapping lad like you stay a virgin?”

He didn’t know what to tell her, so he jested, “A strapping lad like me isna likely to get caught by a lassie!”

Now she reached out with her other hand to grab his other arm, pretending to hold him fast. “But here I’ve caught you, without trying at all!”

“I suppose I let you catch me, aye?” He tried to wink at her, but he knew he failed. He had never mastered the skill. 

“And now that I’ve got you, what will I do with you?” she mused, absently stroking up and down his arms. “Hmm?”

Heat rushed through his body where she touched him, and he couldn’t resist touching her in return. He wanted to put his hand on her leg, her hair, her neck, her breast, pull her close, but he knew it was too soon. It wasn't time. So tentatively, he cupped her cheek. “I’ve been wondering the same, Sassenach. What shall I do with you?”

She nuzzled at his palm and peeked at him mischievously. “The opposite of whatever those fools told you, and you’ll be fine.”

She licked her lips, and he zeroed in on the sight of her little pink tongue. Her hands had dropped to her lap, and he dared to take them in his and ask, “Like what?”

“Oh…” While he traced circles over her hands with his thumbs, she frowned in concentration, staring over his shoulder and trying to remember what she’d overheard from the men. “Here’s one! I heard Murtagh say to finish as quickly as possible. Don’t do that! That’s terrible! Go slow. Take your time.”

Oh. That sounded… wonderful. He would love to take his time. “Aye? Take my time?”

She blushed again, and he wished she’d tell him exactly how and where and why. She dropped her eyes to their linked hands and offered, “Explore. Thoroughly.”

Jamie felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his pulse roared in his ears. It was a wonder, in fact, that there was any blood left in his brain at all, because he felt as it if had all migrated south. “Explore?”

She nodded slightly. “That’s the first thing. With these great big hands…” She giggled, then added, “And with your lips, your tongue.” Did she say tongue? Jamie nearly fell off the bed, and he let out a strangled sound that didn’t resemble any word in English or Gaelic. Luckily, she made nothing of it and continued, “Everywhere.” 

God. As in, everywhere? Would he survive their wedding night? He surely hoped so.

“You’ve kissed, yes? You know that tingling feeling that rushes over your body when you kiss? Lips aren’t the only place that make a girl tingle like that.” Her eyes slipped shut, and her head tilted to the side. Had a memory come over her? Or did she want him to kiss her?

Before he could figure out how to respond, she let go of one of his hands and lightly touched her own neck. “You can kiss here, or lick, of course.” 

He had to grab the covers beneath her to keep himself from grabbing her. “Of course,” he parroted, his voice rough. Screwing up his courage, he leaned forward to try.

Her eyes were still closed, and before his lips reached her skin, with a little sigh, she added, “Or bite.”

That stopped him in his tracks. Now he managed a single syllable, hoping against hope it was enough to make her continue talking, for it was all he could do to keep from shoving her back on the bed and dishonoring them both, but he needed to know exactly what she meant. “Bite?” he croaked.

She nodded head dreamily. “Gently. Or, not so gently, depending.”

_ Dhia,  _ she was going to kill him, wasn’t she? But surely he would die a happy man! “D--do you… Do you like that?” he stuttered, desperate to know.

“Oh, yes.” She sounded just as she had through the door, on that fateful night he had peeked through her keyhole, and the sound shot straight to his core. He wanted desperately to make her make that noise again. He was lightheaded with wanting it, wanting her. Then she undid him completely. “Both giving, as well as receiving. I like both.”

Jamie’s mind spun. Give what? Receive what? What did she mean? Surely she couldn’t simply mean biting, and being bitten? As when a stallion bit a mare? But mares didn’t bite stallions. What was she talking about? “Both?” His voice squeaked in a very unmanly way, and he couldn't seem to speak but to repeat her words, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Mmm.” She nodded again, and her hand began to roam down from her neck, down the smooth skin of her chest, over the layers of her bodice. His memory flashed back to the sight of her playing with her nipples through her shift, and his entire body ached for hers. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, and it hung in the air, hovering above hers where she stroked at her flesh through the fabric. “Here, especially. It feels so good. Giving and receiving, just as I said. Aren't you listening?”

He was, with everything he had. He wouldn’t forget a word of this for as long as he lived. “Aye. I am.” Then he lay his hand on hers, and together they cupped her breast through the layers of her dress. 

Now her smile widened, and she looked directly at him. “Oh, you were, weren’t you?” She still looked dreamy, and soft. “That’s good. That’s very good. Listening is important. Sometimes it’s hard, though, in the moment. And sometimes I won’t find the words, so you’ll have to watch for other signs.”

What did she mean? His imagination was running wild with possibilities, from wondering what her breast felt like without her own hand and all her clothing under his palm, to confusion about the other signs she spoke of. But he had to know, preferably as soon as possible. “Like what?”

She blushed again, giggling and shaking her head, her disordered curls falling into her face. “Sometimes I’ll scream.”

That stopped him short. “Scream? That doesna sound good. I dinna want to hurt ye!”

“Oh, but screaming isn’t always bad, is it?” It seemed like it would be, but what did he know? “Sometimes you just feel so overcome that there’s no other way to express yourself!”

Christ! Was she asking him to make her scream by bedding her? By taking her? By loving her? 

“But I’ll try to be clearer. Like when I’ll tell you to go slower, or faster, or deeper, or harder. Will you listen?”

He couldn’t resist any longer. He entire body thrummed with want of her, and he was helpless against his need. He took her by the waist, and he tugged her toward him. “Aye,” he vowed. “Anything ye say. Anything ye want. I’ll do anything for ye, Claire.”

“Oh, good.” She bit her lip and stared hard at his own mouth, and all his scruples crumbled to dust. Since the second he’d approached her room, he had tried to put out of his mind the possibility of bedding her before they were wed. She was intoxicated, and he would not take advantage of her, not even if the Church was to bless their union in just a few hours. But as he brought her in to kiss her, the conviction was crushed by his lust, by the sensation of her soft, warm body against his. 

Just when her lips nearly met his, however, she turned her head, settled onto his shoulder with a sigh, and her body went limp. 

“Claire?”

Her only answer was a light snore. 

Jamie felt like weeping with frustration. He wanted her so badly that he was in pain, so much pain that he thought, for one brief second, of flipping her onto the bed and pushing her skirts over that soft, round bum. But that wasn’t him. He could never violate her trust that way. He had to wait only one more day, and then she would be his. Forever. 

As he lay her back onto the covers, he couldn’t resist pressing his lips to her forehead. He hung over her for a full minute, breathing her in and feeling the warmth of her skin radiating into his. Then he stepped away from her bed, praying he could make it to a secluded spot in time to relieve his desperate, aching need.

As soon turned around, he realized how wise his decision had been, for the door was still wide open, and in it stood the publican’s wife. The woman cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your intended? Is she well?”

He couldn’t stop the wide, foolish grin that spread across his lips. “She is. My intended, that is. Overindulged, ye ken.”

The woman chuckled at his expression and sent him on his way. “I’ll help her out of her gown, then, and get her under the covers. Make her comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Then he stumbled down the stairs, pushing his way out into the cool air. He gulped lungfuls of it and tried to calm his body, to no avail. 

Tomorrow. He only had to wait until tomorrow.


	2. The Night Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night, from Jamie's perspective

The kiss was simultaneously everything he had hoped for, yet nothing like he expected. She looked almost terrified while saying their wedding vows, so he thought she might dodge his lips altogether. Instead, her soft mouth parted under his with a little sigh, and she leaned into him, gently and sweetly. The strange alchemy that had always drawn him toward her now swept over them both, changing him irreversibly.

He was still reeling from the contact when Dougal cut their wrists, binding them together with a blood vow. Now he could never go back to a life before her, without her, for no matter what happened in the future, she was his wife.

As he cradled her head in his lap, he couldn’t help but smile down at her. The poor thing. When she slipped to the ground, he had panicked. She had been married to him only moments, and already this happened to her? But then he realized she had simply swooned, and he sent the men away to give her space. Or rather, to give him space to be alone with her.

Ned brought a wet cloth, and he used it to dab at her flushed cheeks and long, elegant neck. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through her wild curls. Lord, she was beautiful!

He was thrilled to his core that Dougal insisted that the marriage be completely legal and official, the better to protect her from Captain Randall. Better yet, he even convinced his uncle to find a priest to perform the ceremony, so in the eyes of God, Claire truly belonged to him. Wherever or not she knew it, he had always been hers. They had only to consummate the marriage, and then no English dragoon could tear them apart.

He shifted a little just thinking of it, being careful with the placement of her head in his lap, and thought about what she had told him the night before. Could it be true? Did she truly enjoy bedding a man? More importantly, would she enjoy bedding him? Against his will, he thought of her late husband, and not for the first time, wondered what he had been like. Whoever he was, it seemed he had pleased Claire. He prayed he could do the same, or better yet, drive the memory of the man from her mind entirely.

Below him, Claire’s eyes fluttered open. As he stared into their whiskey depths, he forgot to be jealous. He smiled down at her. “That bad, was it?”

She admitted to overindulging in spirits the night before, and she spoke as if he hadn’t been there. Now he was certain she didn’t remember that he had seen her to her chambers, nor the conversation that had followed. He was equal parts relieved and disappointed. But she didn’t flinch when he gently brushed a stray curl from her face. In fact, her eyes softened slightly, which warmed his heart.

Then she winced because of the pain in her wrist, and he explained the meaning of their blood vows. He repeated the words in English with the same solemnity with which he had made them. Did it mean more now that she knew what they had promised? He certainly meant every word. Perhaps she would too, in time. He hoped so.

Claire still looked a bit piqued, and she wanted to know where the others had gone. He, too, wished the rest of the party would leave them to their own devices, but Dougal didn’t trust them. He blushed furiously when reminding her that their union was not official until consummated. He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse that they had to suffer through dinner before it could be done, but he couldn’t have her swooning again, so he promised to feed her, and they rejoined the party.

* * *

Jamie leaned his forehead heavily against the thick wooden door. Claire was on the other side, just feet away. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would pop straight out of his chest, and he was sweating despite the cool temperatures. He wanted her so badly that his hands shook. Was she as terrified as he was? Perhaps, but not for the same reasons. He gathered his courage, dabbed at his forehead with a scrap of cloth from his sporran, and balled his hands into fists to keep them still. Then he pushed the door open.

From her perch on the edge of the bed, Claire stared at him with wide eyes. Indeed, she looked just as scared as he felt. His heart melted at the sight, and his natural instinct to protect her overrode every other urge. In the same soothing tone he used with startled horses, he offered, “You dinna need to be afraid of me. I wasna going to jump on ye.”

She laughed, and he knew it was the right thing to say. She looked so bonny, and he decided that no matter what else happened that night, he would treasure that expression on her face, for it was he who drew it from her. Then she asked him to sit with her. As much as he wanted to join her on the bed, he didn’t think she was ready for contact quite so close, so he drew a stool to face her. Good. This way he could see her face, that lovely glass face which said everything her lips did not. He found his hands still trembled in the air, so he gently held hers. Just as he had hoped, the simple action calmed them both. He felt his own pulse slowing, and her expression relaxed visibly. But as soon as he asked about her late husband, whom he knew her to be thinking of, she stiffened again. She declined to speak of the man, but he had successfully opened lines of communication. Instead of answering, she took the opportunity to ask questions of her own.

He assumed she wanted to know why he was still a virgin, but that topic only made her blush prettily. She changed the subject by asking something he wasn’t fully prepared to answer: why he had agreed to marry her. He was certain the real answer would only scare her away. She wasn’t ready for a declaration of undying love. So he tried to deflect her with a joke, but she insisted on knowing the answer. He wouldn’t lie to her. Instead he promised her honesty, and he asked for the same. Then he told her what he was ready to reveal. He vowed to protect her and stated that he could not allow her to be given over to Captain Randall. He still wasn’t ready to lay his heart bare and tell her he had fallen in love with her, not when she had barely gotten used to the idea of being his wife, but he vowed to shield her with his own life if necessary. This seemed to touch her, and they leaned closer. He was more than ready for their next kiss.

She, however, was not, and when he was only a hair’s breadth away from pressing his mouth to hers, stopped him with an absurd question about his family. He couldn’t help but laugh. But if she needed him to talk, he would talk. He would do his best to put her at ease, for she was giving him the dearest gift she could give–herself.

As the night wore on, he realized that he was content. This was, after all, how they had spent much of their time together, time that he treasured deeply. They had simply talked, and laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company. He had never felt so at ease with a lass. No, a woman. For Claire was like no one he had ever met before, certainly nothing like the foolish lasses at Leoch, the whores of France, or the ladies of Paris. He would talk all night if only she would keep smiling at him that way, with her eyes shining, cheeks rosy, and curls slipping out of their knot to frame her face.

Then Angus and Rupert interrupted to see if the marriage had been consummated, and he could have murdered them both with his bare hands. He feared the intrusion might embarrass Claire to the point that she would retreat into herself once more, and he stood in the middle of the room, uncertain what to do next. But instead of turning him away or becoming shy, Claire suggested they go to bed.

What… What did she mean? Was she actually asking him to bed her? She couldn’t possibly. It was too good to be true. But then again, she had known it would happen. In fact, she knew more about it than he did, having been married before, and she had even said that she enjoyed it. He blurted out, “To bed, or to sleep?”

She peeked at him coyly over her shoulder and said only, “Well…”

He wasn’t entirely naive. It wasn’t a rejection, far from it. So he offered to help her with her laces. She turned so he could remove her skirts, and once removed, he couldn’t stop his hands from moving along her smooth shoulders to her elegant neck. Untying the simple ribbon there was exquisitely intimate, and he touched her as if she was the most precious being in the universe, which, at that moment, she was.

As the little scrap of fabric fell to the ground, he decided he would replace it with one of his most beloved possessions: his mother’s pearls. He could hardly wait to see them against her skin. But his body’s needs overrode those of his heart. When she turned to him, he didn’t hesitate. He tugged at the laces that closed her corset, mentally cursing the thing for its ridiculous number of loops.

Then, suddenly, it was gone, and the only thing veiling her from his gaze was her thin shift. He slowly moved his hand toward her and tentatively touched her skin. Her breath came fast, but she didn’t flinch from him, so he slid his hand under the cloth and cupped her breast in his hand. _Oh._ He had never felt anything quite so soft, and yet the nipple pebbled enticingly under his hand. It was irresistible. She was irresistible. He leaned in to kiss her, but she stopped him with a hand.

Instead of rejecting him, though, she whispered, “It’s my turn,” and her demand inflamed him as nothing else could.

She tugged away his belt, and when it dropped to the floor, he could resist no longer. He brought her mouth to his, and he showed her exactly what he felt for her. He might not possess the words, or at least, did not feel free to say them out loud, but he could communicate nonetheless.

The kiss was heaven.

Perhaps he would have been satisfied kissing her forever, were it not for his body’s urge to become one with hers. He reluctantly parted from her, and she breathlessly asked, “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

Ah. So she was not unaffected by him. Good. Oftentimes he felt as if he were simply mooning after her, while she hardly noticed him. But now… “I said I was a virgin, not a monk.” Then, with false bravado, he added, “If I need guidance, I’ll ask.” He dropped his kilt to the floor and spun her around, rucking up her shift. The sweetest, loveliest arse was bared to him, and as much as he wanted to look at her, to drink her in, to memorize how she looked in that exact moment, he no longer had the patience. He had been awaiting this moment since they had met, even before they had met. He had to be inside her. Now.

But just as he began to push her forward, she surprised him by twisting to face him once more, and she pulled him down to her.

_Holy God!_ He was overcome. It wasn’t graceful, practiced, or confident. It was simply the most blissful and overwhelming experience of his life. Again, he wanted to savor it, savor her, but his body was compelled by an instinct as old as time, and he had to move. All higher thought fled from his brain as rhythm took over, and he plunged into her now, and now, and now!

The sound of her gasps penetrated his haze, raising his lust to a level he had never before experienced. He couldn’t help answering with his own guttural grunts. But she wasn’t simply panting for air; she was saying his name and telling him he was crushing her.

He told himself to stop, but it was all he could do to lift his weight off her chest. It was too much. She was too much, the sound of her breath in his ear, the way her slender form moved under his, the feeling of her hands on his body, the way her legs opened for him, and most of all, the heat of her taking him! Pure sensation raced down his spine, grabbed him at his root, and shook him to the core.

Reluctantly, he rolled off her, trying hard not to grin at her like a fool. He felt her peeking at him, and he peeked back, but she was already staring at the ceiling with a shy little smile touching her lips. It looked absurdly becoming on her, and he had to make a conscious effort not to stare at her as he relived the last minute in his mind.

With chagrin, he also remembered her drunken instructions from the night before. She had told him to take his time, to explore, thoroughly, with his hands, his lips, his tongue. It sounded positively rapturous, especially in her breathy, seductive voice… yet he had done none of that. In his eagerness to bed her, he had been reduced to his basest instincts, and he had rutted at her like an animal.

Claire interrupted his musings to ask if it had been anything like he expected. He didn’t possess the language to tell her how he felt, so he stammered and tried to deflect, but she insisted and promised not to laugh. He was in no state to deny her anything. He admitted, “I didna realize that ye did it face to face. I thought ye must do it the back way, like… like horses.”

She immediately broke her promise, unable to hold back a giggle. He laughed with her while she apologized, then gave in to the embarrassment. If he was to be humiliated, he may as well get it over with now. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course!” Her eyes were shining into his, and he giddily recalled something else she had said last night. She had said that for her, it felt good, when done right. Had he done it right? Once she’d corrected his mistake, that is, and turned to face him?

Her face gave him his answer, and it wasn’t what he had hoped for. Her expression, which had been open, perhaps even happy, closed, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t bear the truth of her silence, so he started to prattle on about the advice he had been given by Murtagh, Rupert, and Ned, and he turned away from her pitying expression.

But then she shifted to sit on the edge of the bed with him, and softly she said, “I did like it, Jamie,” and his heart lifted. He straightened, waiting for her to continue. Would she talk to him like she had the night before? He would do anything to please her, to pleasure her, to make her happy.

Instead, a nervous expression crossed her face, and she declared she needed food, then stepped directly into the bawdy tavern. He was unable to stop her. He was prepared for the ribald greeting from below, but she was not, startling in embarrassment. He immediately sent her back into the room, then made a plate efficiently, absorbing the men’s jokes with no small amount of pride. Dougal advised him not to appear too eager to return to his bride, and he rejected that suggestion outright. Everyone knew he was smitten with Claire, and there was no point in hiding it. He even told her as much upon his return, drawing yet another lovely smile from her. It made him brave enough to try touching her hair as he poured a glass of wine, but she flinched. His gut twisted with the rejection, and he backed away. He may be under her power, but she was not yet under his.

Still, she didn’t let him suffer for long. She immediately apologized for the slight, and when he turned back to her, they exchanged tentative smiles. It gave him the courage to approach her again, and to lean over her and tell her the name he had been calling her in his mind for weeks. “ _Mo nighean donn._ ”

Naturally, she wanted to know what it meant, and he was only too happy to answer. “My brown haired lass.”

“A rather dull color, brown, I’ve always thought.”

Nothing about her was dull. Absolutely nothing. “No, not dull at all. It’s like the water in a burn, the way it ruffles through the rocks, dark in the wavy spots, wi’ wee bits o’ auburn where the sun touches it.”

He was laid open by the truth of how he saw her, and he tried once more to touch her hair, her skin, to draw the shawl from round her shoulders. But she wasn’t ready, not yet, and pulled it back up. Her touch, or indeed, the very sight of her, was all he needed to know she was the one. She, on the other hand, found comfort from his words. And so he talked, giving her what she needed to feel safe with him.

He adored every glance, every turn of her lip, every graceful gesture of her hands. He kept talking, putting her at ease, relishing when her smiles reached her eyes, then opened into laughter. He saw when the tension melted from her, when the stiffness seeped out of her shoulders and loosened her form. And when she finally reached for his sleeve, tentatively, instead of clutching her to him like he wanted, he waited for her.

His patience was rewarded. When she was ready, she told him to take off his shirt. “I want to look at you.”

Not as much as he wanted to look at her, and they both knew it. Yet he obliged, and she walked slowly round him. Having her eyes upon him was shockingly erotic, and having her fingers on him, just barely, even more so. He had no idea such a simple act could be so heated, so heavy with intent, intent which he turned on her when she stood before him. “Well then, fair’s fair. Take off yours as well.”

He hardly breathed as she pulled free the string that held her shift together, and when the thin slip fell to the floor, he was stunned. Claire’s body was a revelation. He had seen her before, briefly, but only through a keyhole, and only from behind. The very sight of her took his breath away, and the fact that she was now his? He could hardly believe it. She grew nervous under his gaze, but, brave lass that she was, she didn’t flinch. “Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?”

He had promised her honestly, so he gave it. “Aye, but not one so close.” He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. “And not one that’s mine.”

Then she brought his hand to her breast, and he was lost to her once more. Again, his fine plan dissipated like mist: his intent to explore her slowly, to stroke every inch of her fine skin, discover the paths that took him from hill to valley, to learn if the curve of her waist was as sensitive as the back of her neck, to discover if her flesh tasted different at the angle of her jaw than it did between her breasts, the answers to these questions were lost to his instinct to pull her close, to drink at her mouth, to wrap her body around his, and finally, to merge with her once more.

_Dhia!_ If the sight of her was a revelation, the sensation of moving inside her was rapture. Their bodies met again, and again, and again. This time he had the wherewithal to watch her, to memorize the way her sparkling eyes widened and her lush mouth dropped open, to rake his gaze along the shadows drawn across her milky skin by the firelight, to relish how soft her breasts were against his chest, yet her nipples brushed enticingly against his skin. Best of all were the sounds she made, halting breaths, sharp gasps, and sweet mewls. Was that the pleasure of which she spoke? He hoped to God that it was, that this intimate and deeply personal act gave her a fraction of the sensation it did him.

And oh, such sensations! He had found pleasure in his body before, had resorted to his hands when the urge was too strong to resist, had experienced lust, especially for her, but it was nothing like this, nothing like being with her, with no door, no clothing, no space, no barrier whatsoever between them. If he had once tasted a drop of water, she was an thunderstorm. If he had once felt a spark, she was an inferno. And in her, he would happily drown, or burn to ashes in her flames.

Yet what was this? Beneath him, she began to writhe. Her spine arched off the bed and toward him. Her fingers dug into his flesh as if she was trying to pull him as close as possible, trying to make them one. She tossed her head back and bared her throat. If only he could still the inevitable movement of his hips, he would lave at that elegant neck and mark it with kisses, would caress every inch of her. But a primitive rhythm had taken hold of him.

Then her body began to quake and spasm, and she let out a keening cry that stopped him short. He froze immediately. “I’m sorry! I didna mean to hurt ye!” He had thought that once begun, he wouldn’t be able to stop. But concern for her wellbeing overrode all other sentiments.

Beneath him, she shook her head and gasped for air. “You didn’t.” Could be believe her? She was such a brave lass. Would she tell him if he had hurt her?

“Are you sure?” He cupped her skull gently in his palm, suddenly afraid at her fragility. She displayed such strength that it was easy to forget how vulnerable she really was.

“Yes!” It wasn’t her word, but the blissful expression on her face that told him what had happened.

Could it be? He was floored. It was just as she’d said. He hadn’t really understood her intoxicated ramblings the night before, but now he did. “Ah… I did not know a woman could… Does it happen every time?”

As he struggled to contain his own mounting lust, which had temporarily been dampened by his alarm, she brought his mouth to hers and smoothly flipped them over. He tried to hold still beneath her, knowing that when he climaxed, he was unable to immediately resume. Was it the same for her?

Between searing kisses, she answered, “Only if the man is a very good lover.”

_Oh. Oh!_ Was she saying…? About him? He wanted to please her so badly. “You’re just… you’re just so small! I dinna want to hurt ye!”

She leaned away from him, and he tried to follow, drawn inevitably toward her, trying to kiss that warm, soft mouth, but she responded by grasping his hand and nipping at his palm.

“What are ye doing?”

“Stay still!” He obeyed as she descended down his chest, alternating sharp bites with searing kisses. It was like nothing he had ever imagined. “Does that hurt?”

“Aye, a bit.” Was this what she meant when, in her drunkenness, she had spoken of biting? Indeed, his skin burned for her where she’d used her teeth long after she had moved on.

As she teasingly inched her hand toward the focus of his pleasure, she asked, “Do you want me to stop?”

Was she serious? She could do anything she wanted with him! “No! No.”

Then– _oh!_ –her hand was on him. How was it possible that her small, delicate hand felt so much better than his own? It was a marvel. She was a– _Dhia!_ Her tongue! He bucked and squirmed helplessly as she tasted him and– _oh God!_ –tasted herself on him!

As Claire enveloped him with her mouth, all rational thought fled from Jamie’s brain, and he was ruled by sensation. She moved over him and around him deliberately, and he lost himself to her tongue, her fingers, her palm, her lips. He had to fist the bedding to keep from grabbing her hair, whose soft curls danced across his skin. She alternated sharp with soft, fast with slow, rough with soothing, gentle tugs with careful caresses. He had never imagined anything like it, and it was better than he could have dreamed. And then… _oh. Oh. Oh!_ He was rocked with pleasure, and he spilled himself into her throat.

As she lay her head on his chest, he muttered aloud without thinking, so open was he to her charms.

“What did you say?”

“I thought my heart was going to burst!” he admitted, making her smile. Ah, what he wouldn’t give for more of those smiles. Better yet, what he wouldn’t give to make her feel as she had just done for him! “If I did that to you, would it feel the same?”

Suddenly, and a bit absurdly, she seemed a bit shy. “Well, you know, I don’t really know.”

Jamie was immensely satisfied to hear it, to learn that there was a territory yet unexplored, a path they would walk together for the first time, a way that he alone could please her, with no memory of another man haunting them. “Oh, so there’s something you don’t know?” he teased. “Well, we’ll find out then, won’t we? As soon as I’ve the strength for it.” For in his blissful state, he wasn’t sure he could move, as his body felt as if it had melted into the bed. “Next week, sometime.” Smiling at her, he slipped into unconsciousness.

Some time later, he woke when he realized the space beside him was cool. How was it that he missed the warmth of her body already? He had never before shared a bed with any lass, and she had been his wife but for a few hours.

She sat by the hearth, staring into the hypnotic flames. He rose quietly and moved to his sporran, pulling free his most valued possession. She heard him coming and turned slightly, and he lowered the strand around her neck. They looked beautiful against her fair skin. “They’re Scotch pearls, belonged to my mother, and now they belong to my wife.” Finally he had the courage to bare himself fully to her, for he understood instinctively that in so doing, there was nothing to lose, and everything to gain. “They’re one of the few things I have left of her. Very precious to me, as are you, Claire.”

He held still, awaiting her response. Instead of shying away, or flinching, or simply thanking him, she turned to him and kissed his shoulder. He waited, holding his breath. She touched his cheek, then leaned in to press her lips to his. Oh. There it was again, that heat, that energy, that something between them. He turned toward her, and he began to kiss every spot within reach as she lowered herself onto him.

Now, finally he could look into her eyes, and she returned his gaze unflinchingly. Something passed between them in that moment, something that bonded them in a way the wedding ceremony had not, in a way their physical joining had not, in a way that giving and receiving pleasure had not. In her lovely eyes, he saw acceptance, and he thought, he hoped, he prayed, perhaps even more.

He took her hand as they moved together, and he stroked her fingers gently. To his joy, she returned the gesture. That simple, sweet touch meant as much to him as the consummation of their marriage. More, even, than the Gaelic vows she had repeated, not knowing their meaning.

Beneath his plaid, he kept his hands on her hips, at first simply feeling with every part of him the subtle undulations of her body. He hadn’t known it could be like this. He had expected lust, desire, pleasure, and physical release, but he couldn’t have anticipated this tenderness, this gentleness. He couldn’t have known how very happy he would be. He smiled at her, and still, she didn’t drop her eyes, or laugh, or shy away. She started straight into the heart of him, and then, as if to break his heart and reform it in one fell swoop, she returned the smile, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He laughed now, and kissed her, again and again, and then laughed some more. When she laughed too, he marvelled at the way it made her tremble, and at the effect it had on his sex buried deep in hers. All the while, they moved as one, her hips against his, his rising to meet her, letting bliss wash through him, into her, and back again.

Now, finally, he had the sense to explore her, to take his time, just as she had told him to. With her astride him, his hands were free to roam over her hips, sink into her arse, tickle up the back of her spine. He relished every one of her responses, her soft hums, a change in pace of her rhythm, the arch of her back. He peppered kisses across every inch of skin he could reach, and he tasted the salt on her neck, the softness of her cheeks, the swell of her breasts, and the sweetness of her mouth.

Slowly, the fire built between them, while the flames in the hearth burned down to embers. Passion melded with friendship, joy with generosity, and honor with love. When it became too much, when it was too good, when both of them hung, breathlessly, on the edge of climax, he clutched her close to him and groaned her name, infusing the sound with everything he felt for her. She shook, she quaked, and she cried his name in answer. Together they fell, and together they landed.

This time he was certain. His heart had, indeed, burst, the better to make way for hers inside it. Enveloped together in his tartan, in her warmth, in her body, he felt for the first time that perhaps she was becoming his, in all the ways that he was already hers.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Expect one final chapter to this series: the wedding night from Jamie's perspective.


End file.
